


silent heart

by heavensblessing



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Captivity, Crying, Forced Orgasm, Humiliation, Intercrural Sex, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Royalty, Spit As Lube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-29 04:17:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15064973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensblessing/pseuds/heavensblessing
Summary: Royal blood, as the Emperor over the Eight Seas knows, makes the most powerful sacrifice, and the latest (foolish, stupid) king he conquered left behind a bastard son.  Complication: said son was consecrated to another god as a virgin sacrifice, and if his god is to get all the benefit, then he has to do something about that little problem.





	silent heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nonnymouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonnymouse/gifts).



Those poor, poor fools, trusting in their magic and their gods: Aaren had warned them, but of course they hadn't listened. Did they ever? He'd been uncommonly generous, too, when he'd sent them a surrender demand: surrender, and he would let them live. Surrender, and kneel to his rightful power as High King, as Emperor over the Eight Seas, and he would allow their king to keep his throne, to rule, it would have been so easy. So, so very easy: not fun, of course, he disliked matters being too _easy,_ liked a _struggle_ , but a ruler with any sense at all would have yielded, or so he'd thought. How pleasant, and how ultimately useless, for him to have been proven wrong: it wasn't even a good fight in the end, and that king and most of his sons had died so easy. Too easy. Worthless, too worthless to even remember their names. Their royal bloodline was almost broken, now, save for one bastard son, some slip of a boy barely of age who had been hidden away serving in a shrine somewhere as a sacred maiden or something. 

Bastard son or not, royal blood was still royal blood, and his god of the thousand names would still drink the offering laid out before Him at the new moon. But what matter of offering would this prince be? Would he curse and rage like his father, cut down like a dog after the battle? Would he go resigned to his death like his older half-brother? Aaren turned to regard the silent, veiled figure sitting with his white-gloved hands folded in his lap, dressed all in maiden’s white from head to toe, demurely concealed beneath a full veil. There isn’t an ounce of fear in his body language: just calm, serene assurance. 

“The vows of these particular sacred maidens,” his seneschal says mildly, body language practically screaming his disapproval, “Are much more restrictive than those of our acolytes.” 

Alban has always paid more attention to those details: he remembers customs of lands long dead, a hobby, a curiosity. A memorial, or so he says, but a memorial that will eventually go to the grave with him - and what is the point of a memorial that will not outlive its creator? An archive that will not outlast its archivist?

“Tell me.” Aaren says. 

“Children are raised nearly from birth to be sacred sacrifices,” Alban’s deep voice is even, calm, as if reciting the rote lessons of earliest schooling. “Cloistered, kept alone, their entire existences dedicated to their god, held to silence and purity, and even their clothing keeps them apart.” 

“Pure, untouched, silent virgins until the day they’re sacrificed.” Aaren rolls his eyes. No wonder this boy wasn’t afraid of death, not even his certain death as a human sacrifice: not when he’d been raised, and probably conceived, for the purpose of being a sacrifice for the sake of his land and his people. Even his worthless father had surely known the power of royal blood - but hadn’t had the time to do whatever rites their god would have demanded. “Maybe even beyond.” 

“Buried alive, on the morning that they come of age.” Alban confirms, evenly. “To be pure brides for their god, in the afterlife.” he pauses, and adds, “This consecration stays, even if the ceremonies are not carried out, if all other requirements remain the same.” 

Aaren frowns: _that_ complicates matters, somewhat. The little prince had lived longer than he was meant to: perhaps his father had, stupidly, counted on whatever power his son’s sacrifice would give his gods in order to turn the tide in his favor, except that Aaren had won the war _before_ he. And his god would _still_ drink the boy’s blood, but he wants _all_ that offering, all that power, to go to _his_ god, not be divided with the worthless god of a broken land. 

...no, he knows what he’ll have to do. He would have fucked him anyway, entirely for his own pleasure, but now it’s necessary. 

"Have you decided what to do about the prince, my lord?" Alban asks, just as evenly. 

"Of course I have." Aaren stares at his seneschal, flatly: Alban does not stare back, very correct in his bearing and conscious of his place. Instead, he adjusts his glasses and stares straight ahead. 

"Will you need me to assist you?" 

"Not now, but later." he's confident that he can subdue a little pacifist shrine acolyte, and this needs no witness, and he dismisses Alban to his books without a second thought. He has his own reports to look over and decrees to write, but this must be done first, for the good of the empire. 

Would the boy fight him? Aaren doesn't expect him to, sworn to pacifism, obedience, and silence, and he turns to face the little princeling, who is still sitting silently, his hands folded in his lap. 

"Take off your veil." he orders, curtly, and closes the distance between them. 

The boy doesn't move: he continues to sit, his hands folded in his lap, and doesn't even shake his head in refusal. Aaren does not brook disobedience: he backhands the boy across the jaw, more than hard enough to bruise, the sound of the strike echoing loudly in the room. He'd given the little acolyte the chance to willingly comply, and he'd refused: with the same hand he'd used to hit him, he grasps the veil covering him and tears it off with one swift yank, casting it aside. 

At least the boy was a pretty thing, behind the veil: bird-boned and narrow-hipped, dark-moon eyes wide with shock, livid bruise blossoming bright against ivory skin:the rest of him would certainly bruise so nicely beneath his hands as well, still wear the marks when he’s laid out on the altar. He's still wearing layers of maiden's white robes, but they cling to his body the way the veil hadn't, each layer is individually sheer and adds up to an opaque whole. A blessed wedding dress, of all things, to wear to his grave for a divine husband that would never touch him - and Aaren had killed his father just in time, it seems. 

He reacts like Aaren just tore his clothes off instead of just the long, concealing veil, with a small gasp, the barest intake of breath, as he blushes so prettily and slender, small hands come up to try to hide his face. Useless, of course, but nice to look at, especially with how he shudders, especially because no one was meant to look at this boy, no one was meant to look or touch or even desire. How many years has it been since anyone had seen what he looked like beneath the veil? 

Aaren grasps both the boy's slender wrists in one hand and yanks them away from his face, before pulling him to his feet: wide, long-lashed eyes fix on him, confused and now obviously alarmed. "I'll have you in my bed regardless," he says, roughly, and enjoys how the princeling's expression changes, from frozen demure calm to slowly dawning horror. "You can either walk there yourself, or I'll drag you." he lets the boy's wrists go, to see what he does next. 

He expects tears: he expects silent stillness. He does not expect the little princeling to hit him in the face and try to run: it's a pathetic hit, mostly, but the boy's nails catch at just the right angle, scratch harshly enough to draw blood. It's more than anyone's been able to do to him in years, in a long time, more than anyone has dared to do, and even as weak as he is, it only makes Aaren want him more. He doesn't get very far before Aaren catches him by his long pretty hair, pulls him back, and the soft, wordless cry of pain is wonderful, better than a hundred complaining words. 

The boy keeps trying to fight, weakly and ineffectually, as he drags him into his bedroom and throws him onto the bed. Aaren casually deals him a ringing blow to the side of his head, dazes him just long enough for him to secure his wrists and ankles to the bedposts: he's had more than enough unwilling virgins in this bed to have made preparations already, and waits for the boy to come back to himself before he starts tearing off his clothes. 

Of course, the princeling struggles futilely against his restraints: he'll have to be properly broken later, even if only a little bit, but for now, Aaren is quite enjoying himself. Slaps him again for good measure, just because he can, and the sheer layers of white cloth tear so very easily. Thin and diaphanous: definitely a wedding dress, and he tears off one layer of the robes at a time, like he's unwrapping a gift. Enjoys the boy's blushing humiliation at how his dress is indecently translucent after Aaren's torn off several layers, baring his body to his hungry gaze even before he's actually naked. Slender and graceful and flawless: such a beautiful youth: maybe he should bring him naked to the altar for all the witnesses to enjoy. 

He leaves the last layer on, but pushes it open, for ease of access: it's so thin and sheer that the boy might as well be wearing nothing, but Aaren likes the idea of fucking him in what’s left of his wedding dress. He could have the maiden's pretty mouth, too, but rejects the idea, this time: he's never wanted his cock near the mouth of someone who doesn't know what they're doing, and he's not about to start now. Maybe after he gets someone to teach the boy what to do in the days he has left but not now. 

The pretty princeling struggles weakly beneath him, trying vainly to squirm, to press his slender thighs together as Aaren kicks his legs apart, as wide as they will go: so sweet, so futile, and Aaren laughs, spitting into his palm and stroking himself. The more the boy fights, the more it turns him on, and he’s already put up more of a fight in _bed,_ unarmed, than his father had on the battlefield, actually left a _mark_ : far more than he ever would have expected from a little pacifist shrine acolyte. The kind of performance that would have ensured a place in his harem if the pretty thing wasn’t already promised to his god - but he’ll enjoy him as long as he can, until it’s time to bring him to the altar. 

Aaren doesn’t bother to open the boy up with fingers first: someone else could do that before the next time he fucks him, or he could just have Alban fuck him first for all the preparation the boy would need. Instead, his grip tightens on a slender hip, more than hard enough to bruise, and moves him right where he wants him, rubs himself against the boy’s thigh. 

“There’s nowhere for you to go, but struggle if you like. I’ll _enjoy_ it.” he presses his lips against the boy’s ear, feeling as the prince tries to twist away but can’t, pinned beneath his weight: Aaren’s dragging it out, now, takes the boy’s thighs before he fucks his ass. Such smooth skin, and the friction is delicious, made even better by how the boy wiggles and squirms beneath him. 

Soon enough, however, Aaren grows tired of merely toying with the boy, pleasurable as it is: the little maiden belongs to him by right of conquest, and while his life and his blood belong to his god, his body belongs to him, to do with as he pleases. He hopes the pretty princeling will fight him each moment that he fucks him - and isn't disappointed with how tense the boy is as he thrusts into him, tense with the last of his resistance. Nice and tight around his cock as he roughly takes him, forces his body to yield inch by inch, makes him take him all until he's buried all the way in him and doesn't stop, sets a relentless pace. 

Gods, he's so tight, trembling beneath him like a little leaf. Almost too tight: Aaren enjoys that tightness for now, but while he likes fucking virgins for the first time, he's too impatient to really break them in. Maybe he'll have Alban get the boy really used to fucking after this. 

"This is nothing like they promised you, isn't it, boy?" he mutters, low, as he pounds into him, forces him open around him, again and again and again, makes the little princeling look at him while he's fucking him with two fingers beneath his chin and not let him look away. Those pretty, luminous dark-moon eyes are even more lovely with unshed tears clinging to long lashes, still stubbornly refusing to fall, the boy's breathing coming in harsh little gasps - silent sobbing. "A wedding night in a cold bed beneath the earth, joined forever with a god who would never touch you." 

Aaren reaches between slender thighs with his other hand, closes sword-callused fingers around the boy's cock and finds, almost to his surprise, that he's half-hard: pretty no-longer-untouched-virgin likes rough treatment, apparently. "Your husband never would have done this for you," he taunts the pretty princeling, stroking him in counterpoint to his demanding, harsh thrusts and forcing him hard, enjoying how he silently sobs, so sweetly, and apparently his body can't decide between trying to twist away or arching into his touch. "You would have gone to a cold, empty bed to die in the darkness down there. And what a waste that would have been." 

He doesn't let the pretty princeling look away from him as he fucks him, enjoys how obscenely wide the boy's hole stretches around him and how he trembles beneath him. So very, very tight: a body that was made to be fucked, and fucked as roughly as he would fuck any whore - and so nicely responsive, too, . The boy fights him, of course, as Aaren forces his pleasure on him, slamming into him so roughly that the bed shook with the force of his thrusts and strokes him, rough and fast: the boy fights him every step of the way, even in his own enjoyment, until Aaren forces him to yield. 

The pretty princeling cries when he comes, silent as the grave, and Aaren takes his own pleasure at the sight of those tears running down porcelain skin, fucks him even rougher and harder as the boy tightens down even more around him with his own pleasure, slams into him harder and harder and bites down on the boy's throat when he comes, groaning low as he spills inside him. 

Aaren doesn't pull out of the boy until he goes soft, just resting his weight fully on him, still buried all the way in him. "I'll kill you when the moon is new," he reminds the little princeling, who lies beneath him, still at last, silently weeping. He wonders, absently, if the boy hates him, or hates his father, for putting him in this situation - or if his silent martyr's heart is even capable of hatred. "But unlike your former husband, at least I'll give you pleasure before you die." 

He withdraws roughly - just to watch the boy wince - and takes a moment to watch his seed drip out of him, sticky against pale, slender, bruised thighs. From the bedside table, he takes out a toy - made to the measure of his cock - and pushes it inside him, all the way, inserting it as slow and painful as he can, enjoys the silent little whimpers. Alban will do more work with him soon enough - or whatever assistants his seneschal selects to help him break in this boy for his emperor's pleasure, as quickly as he can - but he might as well start getting used to it now. And just leaves him there, wrists and ankles still tied to the bedposts: the rest of his pleasure can come _later_ , when he’s done with his work far later that night. But for now, he has work to do: he has an empire to rule and conquests to plan, and work waited for no one, not even the Emperor over the Eight Seas. 

 

 

 


End file.
